


To the Strongest

by Avia_Isadora



Category: The Borgias (Showtime TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Older Man/Younger Woman, Poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28020615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avia_Isadora/pseuds/Avia_Isadora
Summary: Pope Alexander VI has been poisoned and lies near death. Assassins stalk his family.  Cardinals plot their next moves.  And what of Giulia Farnese, the Pope's mistress?
Relationships: Rodrigo Borgia | Pope Alexander VI/Giulia Farnese
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	To the Strongest

**Author's Note:**

> This goes in episode 3.1 The Face of Death.

There was no guard in the corridor, and that itself was wrong, Giulia noted coolly. The absolute, precise calm which had descended over her noted everything. She watched from outside herself, her posture perfect, her hands folded, as she crossed the upper gallery to knock on the door to the Pope’s apartments. No one answered. The door opened at a push.

He was dead, then. That was the only explanation. Once he was gone, there was no reason for anyone to trouble themselves further with a corpse. They would kill one another in every corner of this lush palace until dawn showed nothing but blood like wine on stone, little tables scattered where they had been kicked over, as though the revelry had ended. Her hands did not shake. Her steps did not falter. Giulia opened the door to the antechamber.

Cardinal Ascanio Sforza looked up from a chair beside the fire. He wore his robes beautifully, not a stain on them, the ruby on his finger glittering where he held the place in the book on his lap. He looked wary. Then his face relaxed somewhat when he saw her step into the light. “Oh,” he said. “La Bella Farnese.”

“Cardinal.” Her voice sounded remarkably normal. He was perhaps the last person she expected to see here. “You are reading.”

He glanced down, as though surprised to find the book in his lap. “Plutarch,” he said. “A fine copy.” He shrugged. “Perhaps you should bar the door behind you.” Something must have showed in her face. “You didn’t know? He lives yet.”

Her knees gave way. Silly, like a puppet with cut strings, she simply folded, landing on her knees on the carpet. She did not even catch herself with her hands.

Cardinal Sforza got up, closing the door and barring it. Then he came around her, ruby skirts flaring, the heavy book still in one hand. “He lives and breathes.”

“Near death?” she asked. Why was she kneeling? She had not meant to kneel.

Sforza gave her a thin smile. “Unfortunately not. He took some water earlier and spoke with Lucretia. Cardinal…Cesare…left a little while ago. He had urgent business.” He offered her his hand. “I believe the Holy Father is sleeping.”

“And what are you doing here?” Giulia got to her feet. She couldn’t fathom why her hand was shaking in his. It should be perfectly steady.

He shrugged. “Where else should I be? He sent the page away.” 

“There is no one here? No guard? No page?” 

“I believe everyone is very busy.” The Cardinal gestured to the chair by the fire. “So I was reading.”

“Plutarch.” 

“It was to hand.” He shrugged again. “And do we not all act according to our own natures? What are you doing here if you thought him dead?”

“Where else should I be?” 

“Just so.” The Cardinal took a deep breath. “Go in if you like. I doubt you were included in the injunction to let no one in.” 

“Whose order was that?” she asked.

“Cesare. It is the eighth hour of the night. The lamps burn low.” He raised a finger with the jeweled ring. “If he lives until the morrow, perhaps.”

Giulia nodded. “I understand.” Her voice sounded almost brisk. “I will stay.” 

She pushed the inner door open as she had so many times. So many times, how many times, how many times had she crossed this floor in anticipation or simply to get to the other side of the room? How many times? How many times could she count, how many heartbeats? 

He looked dead. His face was ashen, lower jaw blackened with charcoal, eyes sunken deeply. Yet his chest moved. He breathed. Was it more than before? Was his breath stronger? Or was it simply illusion, a trick of the guttering candles? A dagger gleamed on the side table, clean and fresh. She did not remember it. And yet it was unused.

Giulia sat down carefully on the side of the bed. Someone had changed his shirt, but his hands were still dirty. A finger twitched. She closed her eyes. His God did not hear her. She had never seen the face of God except in him.

“Giulia.” 

Her eyes flew open. “Yes?”

He focused on her with difficulty. “I thought I knew your step.” 

“It’s only me.” She took his hand. It was warm. That was good. Cold fingers meant impending death. She could not see whether his veins seemed blue beneath the dirt. 

“Why are you still here?” he asked. His voice was very rough. No doubt his throat was bruised. 

“Do not we, who serve the great, still have honor?” 

He made a sound that might have been a chuckle. “If so, you are the only one.” 

She must be fair. “Ascanio Sforza is guarding the antechamber by himself. From that I understand he has told his kin to piss themselves.” He nodded, swallowing. “Do you want some water?”

“A little.” His voice was halting. 

There was a pitcher and glass on the side table. No telling where it had come from. Well, probably not. Giulia poured some in the glass, then took a long, deliberate drink.

“Giulia!” he said, reaching for it.

“Do you see any other taster about?” It was water. Nothing was happening. Nothing like what had happened. Nothing of blood boiling up in her throat. Nothing at all. Her voice was even. She heard herself, watched herself, still in her green gown from the revelry. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.” 

“It would be folly to poison you now.” Giulia handed him the glass. “So you may drink a little. How many poisoners do you think there are in the Vatican at once?” 

“Is that a serious question?” he nearly choked on the water, and she got her arm behind him to raise his head. 

“There. Now a little.” Sitting like this, he lay against her shoulder and could not see her face. She smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “You will live if you live until tomorrow.”

“Useful to know.” He lay back again, and she took the glass and put it aside. “Where’s Cesare?” 

“I believe he had business.” 

“He should guard his mother,” he said. Yes, definitely his throat was bruised. Cantarella closed the throat and burned, but the charcoal was no gentler.

“I believe that is his business, yes.” She certainly hoped so. She had no way of knowing anything.

“And those red vultures?” he rasped.

“Gone to bed or to scheme or to kill one another,” Giulia said. She was still stroking his hair. There was no reason to stop. “It was quite a scene about your bed. I half expected you to take off your ring and say it was for the strongest.”

A snort that might have been a chuckle. “I wish I’d seen it.”

“Well, if you’d seen it, it wouldn’t have happened.” She could still manage this feat of cool logic.

He was quiet for a while. Perhaps he dozed. His hair was filthy. How would one get it clean? The morticians do. She watched herself from without, calm and quiet and flawless in her attention. 

“Why are you here?” he asked again, when she had decided he was asleep. 

It caught her unaware. “My dear, if you die I will never get out of Rome alive. I doubt I’d get out of the Vatican.”

“Ah,” he said. His eyes were closed, his head resting on her breast where it had so often lain. “Self-interest.” One eyebrow quirked. He knew her truths, things that were true but not reasons.

“If God wanted you in hell, you’d be there this moment,” she said. “So let us say I am placing a bet on God.”

That made him smile, as she had known it would. “That’s oddly comforting.” 

“It should be.” She smoothed his hair again. “You will be well soon, my love. Sleep.” 

“I should get up and show myself.” He opened his eyes.

“Only if you’d like to die,” Giulia said. “Rest. You must rest now. Do as I tell you for once.” 

“Virago,” he said without heat, and made no move to get up. Not that he could, with her hand around his forehead. He couldn’t have risen if he tried. But his voice was stronger and he was making sense. She didn’t imagine that.

“Sleep,” she said. “I will be here until morning.” As she had been so many times, spinning out a night of love, spinning out a story or simply sprawled together in drowsy indolence. As perhaps she might again, if his God loved him as she did. 

“Good,” he said, and his hand tightened on hers as his eyes closed. 

She would watch until someone who had the right to be there came. Or until another assassin came. Or the morning. Whichever came first.


End file.
